Fate of the Union

by Max Allan Collins

  People like Bobby never worried about the economics of a problem—just doing what they thought was right, damn the cost, practicality be damned.

  “People like Bobby”—my God, was that how she was thinking now, about the man she wanted to spend her life with?

  Whenever she tried to explain her revised, insider’s views to him, he only called her naive. Now the roles had reversed—he seemed the naive one.

  “What’s so bad about a centrist movement?” she asked. “It’s where most people in this country really stand. The people in the middle just get shouted down by the extremes. And maybe the Common Sense Movement is ‘white-bread,’ but their demographics go across ethnic and even religious divides.”

  He gave her that condescending smile she knew too well. “You’re cute when you mimic your dad. Such a good little girl.”

  “Cute” was his code word for naive. And he had just crossed the line with this “good little girl.” Not a pod in the kitchen at all, just a condescending prick lying momentarily low.

  She flew to her feet and glared down at him. “Go screw yourself, Bobby, because trust me—that’s your only option tonight!”

  “Honey . . . sweetie . . .”

  “Don’t honey/sweetie me, you smug bastard. First you talk me into that intern position, then you treat me like shit for taking it! Who is it again that ought to get off the goddamn fence?”

  He shrugged with open hands, and made his case—lamely: “I just thought you could do some good on the inside, and that we’d have the ear of a US senator.”

  “And by we,” she said, still towering over him, “you mean you . . . pulling my strings?”

  “No . . . that’s not it. Not at all . . .”

  Amy folded her arms, her anger shifting from hot to cold. “Senator Hackbarth isn’t progressive enough for you, I suppose.”

  “She’s a good person, sure, means well but—”

  “What would satisfy you, Bobby? An anarchist maybe? Somebody who’d toss a bomb in the Senate and run away cackling?”

  Senator Diane T. Hackbarth, Democrat from Wisconsin, was rated by the National Journal as among the most left-leaning members of Congress. That was about all Amy had known when she’d been assigned to the senator, but she’d quickly done her homework to get up to speed.

  Since Day One as an intern in Hackbarth’s office, the hours had been longer, the work harder, and the rewards greater than anything the young woman had ever done. All this was on top of her college workload.

  Bobby had quickly gone from being her support system to a genuine pain in the ass. Like tonight—riding her about a protest at a political rally, which he knew damn well she couldn’t attend; it was finally just too much.

  He showed her the surrender hands again. “You’re right, baby. I’ve been a real dick.”

  “Finally,” she said, voice dripping venom, “we agree.”

  Bobby looked up at her like she’d slapped him. He just sat there, eyes wide and welling, mouth hanging slackly open.

  She’d seen that look on her father’s face when she watched secretly from the stairs that time, back when she was in junior high, when her mother had said much the same thing to him. Was she channeling her mother now? The woman she’d resented for being so tough on Daddy?

  She sat next to Bobby. “See what happens,” she said gently, “when worlds collide?” Then jokingly, “Card-carrying pod person like you should know that.”

  He said nothing, wearing the hurt like a drink she’d tossed in his face, dripping there.

  “Baby,” she said, “that came out really nasty. I’m sorry.”

  She kissed his cheek. At least he didn’t pull away.

  Then he said, “No apologies, sweetheart. Got what I deserved. I started in on you and it was unfair and I was a prick.”

  “Like I said,” she said, no venom in her voice at all now, quite the opposite, “finally we agree . . .”

  She kissed him on the mouth and it was sweet and then some urgency came in. Then they were in each other’s arms, making out like the overage immature kids that they were, the blowup over as quickly as it began.

  Bobby’s hands starting roving, then tugging at her clothes, and her cell phone vibrated on the nearby coffee table, hopping around for attention like a child in its crib, wondering what strangeness its parents were up to.

  “Shit,” she said.

  He was unbuttoning her blouse. “Ignore it.”

  “Could be work,” she said, already pulling away.

  “They’ll leave a message,” he tried. “It can wait a few minutes . . .”

  She said, not sharply, “Is that all the time you figure you need?”

  He smiled, laughed a little, took the pressure off and she reached for the phone, getting it just before voice mail kicked in.

  “Senator Hackbarth,” she said, having seen the caller ID. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  The familiar businesslike alto: “Meet me tomorrow, breakfast. Seven a.m., Capitol restaurant.”

  “I, uh, thought the restaurant didn’t open till eight thirty.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  That was all the explanation Amy’s boss gave—after all, rank has its privileges, and so does being a senator.

  Hackbarth was saying, “Have you read the background material on the college-loan reform bill?”

  “Yes,” Amy said, not adding, Some of it. So not technically a lie.

  The senator continued: “And since this law could affect you and a good number of your friends, I’ll be eager to hear your opinion.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Senator.”

  “Informed opinion, Ms. Reeder.”

  “Absolutely, yes, ma’am.”

  The line clicked dead in her ear.

  She turned slowly toward Bobby. He was already sitting up, and when he saw her face, he rose.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No more sorries tonight,” he said pleasantly, but there was just the faintest strain in it. “I’m gonna catch some TV. Check in when you get a chance.”

  He went off toward the bedroom.

  Allowing herself a plight-of-the-working-class sigh, she trudged to the dining room table, grabbed her new briefcase—a gift from Dad—and shambled back to the couch. In the bed where Bobby waited, it was doubtful the two would be able to get to their make-up sex, just as the notion of her getting any sleep at all was similarly unlikely.

  Chances were, she’d be reading till dawn. Withdrawing the fat folder of material on the bill the senator wanted to be briefed on, Amy settled back into the couch.

  Already it felt like a long night.

  “I prefer peace. But if trouble must come, let it come in my time, so that my children can live in peace.”

  Thomas Paine

  SIX

  Pulling out of the Holiday Inn Express in Falls Church, Joe Reeder turned his Prius toward another Virginia bedroom community, Fairfax Station, and the Bryson home. On the way, he hands-free phoned homicide detective Carl Bishop’s cell and got him in two rings.

  “What have I done,” Bish said, over bullpen chatter, “to deserve a phone call from a celebrity?”

  “Maybe it’s that lucky day you’ve heard so much about. Listen, do you guys have Bryson’s laptop? Or a home computer of his?”

  “Not my case, Peep.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I just thought maybe a sharp guy like you might pick something up around the shop.”

  “Listen, I’m on my way out the door after a long damn day. Why don’t you skip the middleman and talk to the kid in charge?”

  “Why not?”

  Reeder heard Bishop calling out: “Woods! My famous friend wants to talk to you. Try not to get all tongue-tied.”

  Soon a crisp tenor said, “Detective Woods, Mr. Reeder. What can I do for you?”

  “Sounds like you don’t get any more respect out of Bish than I do.”

  A light laugh. “I take it as a compliment. I assume you’re calli
ng about that suicide. Bish mentioned you and Bryson were friends.”

  “Yes—did he also tell you about the message Chris left me, that evening?”

  “Yep. Wrote it down for me when you called it in, so I figured I didn’t need to bother you. Pretty straightforward—coroner isn’t requiring an inquest. Sorry for your loss—he was former Secret Service, too, I understand.”

  “Yes. You mind a question or two, Detective?”

  “No. But like I said—”

  “Straightforward, right. Mind humoring me?”

  Just the slightest pause. “What would you like to know?”

  “Did you take a computer into evidence? Something you might have found in the motel room—a laptop, maybe? That’s what Chris used at work.”

  “No. Really, a laptop? Who uses those anymore?”

  “Dinosaurs like Chris Bryson.”

  And me, Reeder thought.

  “No laptop, Mr. Reeder. Or tablet, either.”

  “Strike you as suspicious?”

  “Not really. A man who checks into a motel room to kill himself doesn’t need a computer.”

  “And it wasn’t in his car, either?”

  “No. His wife and son picked up his stuff today, and didn’t ask where his laptop was, if he did have one. We did find a Nikon, but nothing on it. And we didn’t bring in the home computer, either, if that’s your next question.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Reeder, this was a suicide, plain and simple.”

  “Did it occur to you, Detective, that hanging yourself with a belt is not a ‘plain and simple’ way out when you’re a law enforcement professional with a weapon handy?”

  “Suicides take all kinds of ways out.”

  “No suicide note?”

  “No. But you know that’s not unusual, either. I understand losing a friend can be tough—”

  “Do I sound grief-stricken?”

  “No, Mr. Reeder, you sound like a good friend in the same line of work who would rather not think that your friend might be capable of such a desperate act. This is nothing we haven’t seen before.”

  “If you mean murder,” Reeder said, “I agree . . . Thanks for your time, Detective. We’ll talk again.”

  And clicked off before the detective could respond.

  Reeder had been to the Bryson home on Fairview Woods Avenue in Fairfax Station more than once, and drove there easily, no GPS required. He pulled into the empty driveway of the wide, two-story brick-fronted home with attached garage. The first-floor lights were on, Beth expecting him—he’d called ahead.

  Taking his time going up the shoveled walk, Reeder moved through the sloping snow-covered lawn, past white-flocked bushes and curtained windows, then up three steps to the front stoop. Rang the doorbell, the sound of which had barely died away when the windowless steel door swung open. Christopher Bryson, suit coat off, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, stood there looking enough like his father to make Reeder think, My God, have I gone back in time?

  “Mom’s expecting you, Mr. Reeder,” Christopher said, in a mid-range voice that also summoned memories of his dad. “Come in, come on in . . .”

  “Make it ‘Joe,’” Reeder said, taking off his gloves.

  But the response was, “Yes sir,” as the younger man stepped aside, taking Reeder’s lined Burberry and hanging it in a closet of the wide foyer.

  An expansive living room was on the left, kitchen straight ahead down a hall toward the back, while to the right a staircase curved to the second floor, with the den/home office at right. The house was immaculate, just as he remembered it, though he hadn’t been there in years, a feeling underscored by well-maintained furniture that hadn’t changed in decades. That time machine feeling again . . .

  Beth, again in the black silk blouse and black slacks but absent the jacket, appeared at the living room’s arched entrance, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she smiled upon seeing him.

  “Thanks for coming, Joe,” she said, as her son looked on with concern.

  Beth seemed sober enough—he’d never known her to be a heavy drinker—but there was something as liquid about her walk as the Scotch in her glass. She waved with a tissue-stuffed hand for him to follow her into the living room.

  The south wall, to his left, was almost entirely a window onto the front yard. Sheer curtains were drawn, but heavy drapes remained open, the world out there hazy. He faced the west wall, dominated by a fireplace above which was mounted a flat-screen TV with some mini snowmen sitting on cotton on the mantle; a pair of matching sofas were perpendicular to the hearth, a black enameled coffee table between them, a lidless cardboard box of plastic police evidence bags sitting somewhat awkwardly on top of an oversize art book.

  His pleasantly plump blonde hostess sat at one end of one sofa, her son settling in next to her, Reeder sitting opposite.

  “Have you spoken to the police?” she asked, too casually, between sips of Scotch.

  “Just on the phone,” Reeder said. “Had a conversation with Woods, the detective in charge, on the way over here.”

  “The whelp still thinks Chris killed himself,” Beth said, and had another sip, as if to wash away the bitterness. “You agree with that assessment?”

  “That Woods is a whelp? That might be premature. Wait till I’ve been face-to-face with the man and ask me again. Did Chris take his life? Highly doubtful . . . but I need to find something to convince Woods to take this investigation seriously.”

  Christopher said, “What investigation? It’s already a closed file.”

  Beth ignored that, setting her tumbler on the coffee table. “What do you hope to find?”

  Reeder answered the question with another. “Was Chris still using a laptop?”

  Christopher grunted a laugh. “You kidding? He never switched to a tablet, just kept lugging that antique everywhere.”

  “Is it here? In the den maybe?”

  Beth gestured to the cardboard box. “Isn’t it in here?”

  Christopher quickly said, “We haven’t gone through those things of Dad’s. Couldn’t quite . . . you know, face it yet.”

  Reeder said, “I asked Detective Woods and he said there was no laptop on the inventory of effects found in the motel room.”

  Frowning, Christopher asked, “Where is it, then?”

  “Could be a clerical glitch,” Reeder said, then nodded toward the box. “Go ahead and check, would you, son?”

  Christopher rose and did so, hunkering over the box, then looked up and shook his head. “Not here . . . I’ll check the den.”

  And he went off to do that.

  Beth was lost in thought.

  Reeder said, “Something?”

  She nodded. “I’m positive Chris had the laptop with him, when he left for work, that last day. Might be at his office.”

  “All right with you if I go have a look?”

  “I’d be grateful if you did,” Beth said, and gestured to the cardboard box. “His office keys should be in there.”

  “Did he ever use the home computer?”

  “No. That’s strictly mine, in my sewing room upstairs.”

  Christopher returned, reporting no luck in the den.

  Beth said, “Joe, why don’t you take the whole box with you. If it would be of any help.” She met her son’s eyes. “Is that all right with you, dear?”

  “Take it, Joe,” Christopher said. “Maybe you’ll find something worthwhile in there. The police didn’t even try.”

  Reeder thanked him, then went to the box and began riffling through the evidence bags. Right away, something jumped out at him—a cell phone. Not Chris’s smartphone, rather a cheap flip phone, obviously the burner Chris had called him on.

  A question popped into Reeder’s head, one that should have occurred to him sooner—back in field-agent days, it would have. And the police should have asked the same question: What did a man who was about to commit suicide need with a burner phone?

  Reeder
sat back down and asked them both: “Can you think of any reason why Chris would have needed a burner?”

  Beth said, “A what?”

  Christopher answered: “A prepaid cell phone. Something you use once or twice and throw away . . . right, Mr. Reeder?”

  “Right. Was that something Chris might’ve used on the job?”

  Shaking his head, Christopher said, “The kind of investigation Dad normally got involved with wouldn’t require anything like that. Last few years, he mostly did small-business and industry analyses, recommending security systems and procedures.”

  Reeder asked Beth, “You last saw him on Monday?”

  “Yes, when he left for work.”

  “Did you hear from him after that at all?”

  She shook her head. “The next thing was the call from the police the next day.”

  What the hell had gone wrong enough from Monday morning to Tuesday night to make Chris trash his own phone, pick up a burner, and call Reeder on a “life and death” matter? The answer clearly wasn’t suicide.

  Chris Bryson had been on the run.

  On the run from what or whom, Reeder couldn’t say. Yet.

  Then another thought struck him, also one that might have come sooner back in his field-agent days. Maybe Chris had called Reeder out of concern for his family’s safety as much as his own.

  He looked from mother to son and back again. “Beth, is there somewhere you can go for a few days? Somewhere no one could track you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Why?”

  “If Chris was murdered—and it was made to look like a suicide—the likely reason is he’d found something out . . . possibly something about this person, place, or thing called ‘Sink.’”

  Alarmed, she asked, “How would I know anything?”

  Christopher said, “Dad might have told you.”

  “Darling, he never shared anything about work with me.”

  “Mom—how could his murderer or murderers know that?”

  “You’re right, Christopher,” Reeder said. “Short of a family friend, they couldn’t. And, Beth, he did mention that word to you—‘Sink’—if not what it meant. I would feel better if both of you weren’t easily accessible for a while.”